2. ELIZA M

"These birds of paradise but long to flee

Back to their native mansion."-PROPHECY of Dante.

THE young lady whose departure is here narrated, was placed in that rank of life, in which an opportunity is possessed for following the gayeties of the world.

Before it pleased God to engage her attention to the great concerns of a future state, she was in some danger of being too much captivated with the fascinating splendour of gay and polite life. The death of a relation was the means, in the hand of the Almighty, of leading her to see, in a just light, the vanity of the world. This event produced such sensations and reflections in her mind, as had the most salutary tendency. She began to be apprehensive, from the precarious state of her health, that she had no reason to expect a long continuance here. Death, at that time, appeared to her with a most dreadful aspect, because she knew herself to be a sinner, and not in a state of reconciliation and friendship with God.

"The pardon of sin, the sanctification of her nature, and a disposition suited to the heavenly world, she was fully convinced, were necessary to future happiness. For many childish and youthful follies she stood selfcondemned; and though she did not make known her inward disquietudes to any one, she had, for some time, sore conflicts in her own breast. She sought relief from God only, pouring out her requests before his throne for that mercy which is never denied to those who sincerely ask it in the name of Jesus. He who hath said, 'I love them that love me, and those that seek me early shall find me,' was pleased to manifest himself to her, in

so gracious a manner as at once to remove her disquieting fears, and establish her mind in hope and tranquillity. She was enabled to say, with humble confidence, I am weak indeed, but Christ is strong; I am poor, but he is rich; I am sick, but he is the Physician; I am a sinner, but he is the Saviour of sinners. I find in him everything answerable to my needs.' His atoning sacrifice gave relief to her wounded conscience, and joy to her desponding heart. Renouncing all confidence in the flesh, she, from this period, looked for all her salvation from the Redeemer's cross.

"When the disorder of which she died began to prevail, she earnestly requested Mr. Fawcett, a neighbouring minister, to visit her as often as his other concerns would permit. He soon found her intelligent and conversable upon Divine subjects, far beyond what he expected. Her conceptions of the way of salvation were clear, her faith in the Redeemer steady, and her hope lively. Flattering expectations were sometimes raised respecting her recovery. The ablest physicians attended her, and every method was adopted in order to restore her debilitated frame; but though she was often relieved, and the threatening symptoms checked for a season, yet, to the great distress of her affectionate parents, she visibly declined in strength, and wasted away by slow degrees.

"When a minister is called to visit the afflicted, he often finds himself under great embarrassment. To discourse with them concerning death, and the necessity of being prepared for that awful event, is thought harsh and severe. He that would deal faithfully with them, and admonish them of their danger, need not expect to be often invited. But this was far, very far from being the case with our young friend. She knew herself to be in dying circumstances, and had no wish to be told that there was hope of recovery. Though her expectations

of a temporal kind were considerable, she freely relinquished them all, and became not only indifferent to all earthly things, but actually dead to them. She might well say,

"Tis finish'd now, the great deciding part;

The world's subdued, and heaven has all my heart.'

When she saw her affectionate mother weeping by her, she always endeavoured to comfort her by such words as these: Mamma, do not weep for me, I am quite happy; I have no wish to live; if I might have life by wishing for it, I should rather choose to die and go to my Redeemer.' Such entire victory over the world, in one of her years, and circumstanced as she was, is very uncommon, and can only be the effect of that faith which overcometh the world, as it is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.'

When select portions of the Divine word were read to her, she listened with the most ardent attention, and often signified how comforting and supporting it was to her mind. Though her weakness and pain increased from week to week, she never seemed to be weary of religious exercises. Her request, when Mr. Fawcett left her, generally was, 'Come again soon,' or, When will you favour me with another visit? When prevented by other engagements from attending her at the time she expected him, he sometimes transmitted to her a few hasty lines, which he knew to be expressive of the sentiments of her mind. These she presently committed to memory, and adopted as her own.

Though she was much endeared to her friends, yet they could not but desire to see the time of her release. Her sufferings were great and long-continued; but she was a pattern of sweet resignation, of dignified patience, of noble fortitude, and of entire deadness to everything below. Her heart and her hopes were above. Death

was not to her the object of dread, but of desire. She settled every little circumstance of a temporal nature, in the prospect of her end, with the utmost composure, and talked of dying as of going some pleasant journey. 'What, my dear Miss,' said one of her attendants, 'are you not afraid of the pains of death?' She assured her, that she felt no terror in that respect, for her merciful Saviour was able to support her. She often said under her sharpest pains, 'I am very happy; I would not change situations with anyone living.' The little stock of money she had in her possession, she divided into small sums, and sent them to the most needy and deserving objects she could remember."

The following is Mr. Fawcett's account of his last visit to her:

"My last visit to her was on Sunday evening, September 22. I found her extremely ill, but supported amidst her agonies by a lively hope of celestial felicity, and full of heavenly comfort. A deadly coldness had already begun to seize her emaciated hand. I told her her warfare was nearly accomplished. She replied with the sweetest composure, I hope it is.' She wished me once more to assist her devotions, and particularly to pray for her release; I endeavoured to do so, in a few short petitions, commending her soul to the hands of her Redeemer, whom having not seen she loved; in which she appeared to join in the most fervent manner. After having suggested a few consolatory hints, with a view to confirm her faith in the last conflict, I took my leave, not expecting to see her again till we should meet in the world of spirits. Her cough was incessantly troublesome, her pain in every part very great, and her weakness not to be described.

Soon after I left her she desired to be moved, and feeling the springs of life begin to fail, she said to her attendants: It is now over,' or words to that purpose.

She appeared to be perfectly sensible, calm, and composed to the last, often saying, as long as she could be heard to speak, Come, Lord Jesus!' At half-past nine she breathed out her happy spirit into the bosom of him who had long marked her for his own.

She in a sacred calm resign'd her breath,

And as her eyelids closed, she smiled in death.'

"At the early age of fifteen she thus joyfully entered that rest which remains for the people of God."

3. ELIZA CUNNINGHAM.

"Flowers that once have loved to linger
In the world of human love,
Touch'd by death's decaying finger

For better life above!

O! ye stars! ye rays of glory!
Gem-lights in the glittering dome!

Could ye not relate a story

Of the spirits gather'd home?"

RELIGION in no situation appears more lovely than in its youngest votaries, and never are its triumphs more brilliant, than when it gilds, with beams of heavenly light, the dying scenes of those who are summoned in the prime of youth, to pass through the dark valley of the shadow of death.

Eliza Cunningham was born February, 6, 1771, and soon after she had completed her twelfth year, she was committed to the care of her uncle, the Rev. John Newton.

"I soon perceived," says Mr. Newton, " that the Lord had sent me a treasure indeed. Eliza's person was agreeable. There was an ease and elegance in her whole address, and a gracefulness in her movements, till long illness and great weakness bowed her down. Her